


I'll be there for you

by ShuckHale



Category: The Maze Runner (2014), The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Fluff, M/M, thominho - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-02-23 12:37:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2547737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShuckHale/pseuds/ShuckHale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas has got a splinter in his hand, Minho's there to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll be there for you

Thomas scrambles inside the Homestead in a hush as he grunts, winces and swats his hands to his side. He’s not exactly feeling nothing inferior to an annoying prick in the palm of his hand, and to be honest, he’s been through worse than that. For God’s sake, Thomas has been shot once, and endured better than he is doing right now. But getting hurt after so long (actually only a couple of months precisely, but longer than ever before) living peacefully, without any threats to his life, kind of took him aback. 

If this is even considered getting hurt.

When he peeks around, he meets questioning looks from both Gally and Minho, and wonders how ridiculous he must be looking, mumbling obscenities under his breath and sweating like he’s having a panic attack. Perhaps, he is.

“You okay, dude?” Minho asks, of course he does.

Thomas bites at it, his teeth gnawing roughly against his palm while he stares wide eyed to his friend. How embarrassing is this? Telling Minho, of all people, that he’s freaking out over a splinter tucked in his hand?

“It’s nothing,” He says, shrugging, and turns around. 

“Thomas!” Minho yells, stepping closer to him, his arms stretched out as if he’s expecting Thomas to pass out and fall into his arms. “What’s going on?”

“Oh come on, I bet he’s just overreacting about nothing.” Gally snorts, folding his arms over his chest, his damn eyebrow arched, challenging him to prove him wrong.

Thomas sighs, then holds up his palm. “I was poking around out there in the fields, gave myself a splinter,” He reveals defeated, because Gally is right. He really is overreacting.

“Ha!” Gally jabs a finger at him, accusingly. Thomas rolls his eyes.

“Do you have a needle?”

“Of course we don’t, shuck-face. I do have a knife, very sharped and pointed one,” Minho says, smiling, relief is evident in his tiny eyes.

“Whatever, that will do.”

Minho goes through the box filled with stuff they’ve found in the stash provided to them long before they got this safe place, apparently supplied with everything and much more they needed. Thank God, it’s made their jobs a lot easier to develop, and thankfully something would come at hand in Thomas’ situation. With his hand. 

Thomas grins at him, and after a second Minho grins back, handing a little knife, like one of those they had back in the Glade. Their fingers brush, his cheeks blush.

“Thanks,” Thomas says, too innocent, and grabs it.

“You need help?”

“Think I can handle this on my own, you know. I’ve felt a lot worse than this.”

He’s pretty sure he hears Gally groaning beside them even though he has his back towards them. Thomas ignores him, and smirks at Minho, showing off his fierceness. The older boy nods in agreement, then resumes his work with Gally again. 

They’re discussing about what they should build in the place, and the rest of it Thomas is just not interested at the moment. He sits down at the table and heaves down a deep sigh. He spreads his hand out in front of him, palm up. And only then he realizes he’s going to have a hard time trying to pull a splinter out of his right hand, using his left hand, when he is right-handed. 

And he’s also shaking, for what exactly, he has no clue.

“For Christ’s sake!” He snaps, the second try he swings and misses, leaving a small, bleeding hole in his flesh. By the time he finishes it, his hand will look like a sieve. 

“You’re such a sissy,” Minho speaks from behind him, in that mocking sound Thomas hates so much. Minho’s laughing, head tilted and peering over his shoulder. Thomas wonders how long he’s been there, just waiting to make fun of him. 

“Let me do it,” Minho offers again, and now Thomas just wants to rub in his face that he can do it. By himself. 

“I can handle it,” He insists, scooting away from the Asian. “I’ve dealt with this before, like hundreds of times.”

“Is that why you’re chickening out about it?”

“I am not chickening out!” He snaps, voice cracking and everything. Minho’s eyebrows go up, as if saying ‘see? You are so chickening out’. He shakes his head, unfazed. He walks around the table and sits across from Thomas, holding out his hand for the knife.

“Ugh, fine,” Thomas mutters, throwing his arm across the table and tossing the knife on it. Minho picks up his hand in both of his own, and pushes his thumb gently against his palm searching for the splinter. It soothing and it tickles. Thomas tries his best not to shudder with the tender touch.

He shudders even so.

Until Minho scratches right on the spot that’s been stabbed, and Thomas flinches letting out a low ‘ouch’.

“Relax Thomas, I want you to breathe. Please, try not to cry or yell or anything. I don’t want to stab your beautiful hand.” Minho jokes, focusing his sight into the hand in front of him.

“Minho, come on! Stop shucking around. Do it!” He says, but it’s fond. 

It happens fast. Minho, of course, is quick and careful and focused. There’s nothing this guy can’t be efficient at. And Thomas just watches wordlessly as he works the sliver of wood out of his skin. It only hurts for a second, when the sharp silver blade punctures his skin, and Thomas recoils. His whole body tenses up, because Minho squeezes his hand afterwards, comforting. Thomas, who was looking away from him, looks back in and finds Minho still staring at his hand. He’s rubbing his thumb against his life line, distracted. 

Thomas doesn’t want him to stop; he likes the foreign feeling running up his arms, giving him goose bumps. Minho’s touch is warm, but firm, and if he keeps going Thomas is sure he could fall asleep. He imagines the same touch running through his hair and the back of his neck, and—

“You survived my first surgery,” Minho’s voice surges in, pulling him back to reality. There’s this mischievous look in his eyes Thomas is so accustomed with.

“Oh, you just saved my life Beloved Leader. You should become the Keeper of the Splinter Removers.” 

“Are you being sarcastic? That’s new.”

“Learned from the best.” 

They grin at each other, knees touching under the table. Thomas anticipates him to let go of his hand at any second now, and unexpectedly, he entwines their fingers. He tugs at his hand as Thomas grin stretches out even wider across his face, pathetically. Minho holds out his other hand, fingers wriggling as if calling out for him. Thomas follows suit, and now they have both hands tangled.

“I’ve got your back, shuck-face,” Minho says softly, leaning in over the table. “No matter what.”

“Oh shuck me, get a room!” Gally whines from behind, hands in his head in frustration, snapping the boys out their love haze. 

“You know what? Let’s call it a day.” Says the builder, absently. He grabs his tools and heads to the door. His half smile is apparent when he peeks over his shoulder.

“Next time you want Minho’s attention, don’t use a shucking splinter as an excuse.”

The boys chuckle when he’s gone, and Thomas looks down sheepishly. It goes without saying, Thomas and Minho are always looking out for each other, even if it’s just to take care of a simple splinter or to actually save each other’s lives.

“Yeah, I’ve got your back too,” Thomas says, and kisses the back of Minho’s hands.


End file.
